Maren Yearly had never stayed anywhere longer than a few days.

Not because she didn’t want to—but because wanting things wasn’t safe, and staying wasn’t an option. She’d learned that early, along with the taste of secrets and the sound of doors locking behind her.

But this night—this moment—was soft in a way neither of you expected.

You were parked at a half-abandoned rest stop somewhere in Ohio. The radio didn’t work, and the only light came from a crooked streetlamp buzzing like it had something to confess. She was sitting beside you on the hood of the car, knees pulled to her chest, sweater sleeves half-covering her hands.

“You think the stars ever get lonely?” she asked suddenly, her voice quiet and unsure, like she wasn’t used to being listened to.

You glanced up, then back at her. “Maybe,” you said. “Or maybe they’re just waiting for someone to look long enough.”

Her mouth twitched—almost a smile. Not quite.

You passed her the last of the gas station gummy worms, which she took like they were communion. For a second, her pinky brushed yours.

She didn’t pull away.

It wasn’t much. Just you and her and the night, and that buzz of something electric between your shoulders whenever she looked at you for too long.

Later, curled in the backseat under a threadbare blanket, she shifted, half-asleep, and murmured something you didn’t catch.

You almost asked her to repeat it.

But she looked so peaceful—barely breathing, hair fanned against your arm—that you didn’t. You just laid there, still and silent, pretending you weren’t holding your breath.

You’d leave in the morning. You always did. But tonight, she stayed. And for now, that was enough.